after Marc Riboud’s photo, Painter of the Eiffel Tower, Paris, 1953
I watch your ballet, paint brush
in right hand, wingspan of an eagle.
Steel struts a geometry of light
and shadow. Smoke from your Gitane
scents the space with panache.
You plié to dip your bristles
in the bucket. I cringe
each time you stride and stroke.
I perch with you to dance
in midair, but don’t look down.
Instead, I snap the shutter
then stutter step to safety.
“If taste for life diminishes, the photographs pale, because taking pictures is like savouring life at 125th of a second.”—Marc Riboud
